Fenris: Making Plans
by wendymarlowe
Summary: Hawke is trying on armor again, and Fenris is trying hard not to pay too much attention. But Hawke is the one mage who has managed to get under Fenris's skin - how long can Fenris keep his thoughts to himself? (Rated T for occasional mild language and implied adult themes)


He dragged us all to the Hanged Man again, this time just to watch him try on his new armor. I don't know what Hawke's obsession is with what he wears, but he changes clothes more often than an Orlesian noblewoman. By this point, I figure it's probably for the same reason.

"What do you think, Fenris? The black robes, or the leather tunic? I'm inclined to try the robes, for ease of movement, but the tunic helps me concentrate my spells so I get a bit more range." He pulled the robes off over his head again, baring his shoulders and a vast expanse of his back in the process.

I tried to pretend I wasn't staring, but I've never been good at that kind of deception. Isabella was worse – she made no secret of the fact she was ogling the way Hawke's muscles moved as he tossed the robes over a chair and wriggled into the tunic. But damn it, how could I look away? My only saving grace was that Hawke was more focused on the tunic's buckles than he was on me. Buckling them around his waist and over his nicely trim stomach . . .

Hell – he had asked me for an opinion, hadn't he? "I'd go for the tunic," I said as nonchalantly as possible. With any luck, he'd interpret the rasp in my voice as disapproval over his insistence on dressing so obviously like a mage.

I know I have no right to have these thoughts about any mage, much less one who has become – dare I say it? – as close a friend as Hawke has. He's pulled me through some difficult battles, and we've saved each other's lives more times than I can count by now. He's never directly come out and said he'd be interested in more, of course, but I've seen the way he looks at me. Like he's sizing me up for something other than fighting darkspawn.

Not that I haven't been doing the same thing. I stuck with him out of a sense of obligation at first, despite the punch to the gut that came with discovering my savior was a mage. I've spent so long hating mages . . .

Anders being a perfect example. He's barely paying attention to Hawke's public strip show, preferring to lean against the wall and fiddle with his ridiculous feathered pauldrons instead. The man's a twat, it's that simple – but I'll tolerate him. For Hawke's sake. Anders is good to have around during a fight, I suppose, if you don't mind him standing in the back and yelling "Anybody need healing?" instead of actually, you know, KILLING things. But Hawke gets his ass handed to him on a regular basis by stray opponents and I can't always round up everything, so I'll suffer Anders' presence for now.

"Find any new daggers while you were out?" Isabella's gaze lingers on Hawke's midsection a bit longer than is comfortable, but success – Hawke upends his backpack on the table, sending three daggers and a broadsword skittering across the scarred wooden surface. Isabella eagerly picks up one of the daggers and starts comparing it point-by-point with one she's already carrying at her hip.

"Fenris – the sword interest you?" Hawke is speaking low, so as not to interrupt Isabella's monologue to herself about the merits of speed versus dexterity.

I shrug. "The axe I have is just as good – I'm not picky."

"You should be." He sidles up next to me, casually reaching around my waist to unbuckle my belt and unsheathe my current weapon. No, not casually – his movements are graceful and fluid, like everything he does, but his fingers brush the front of my trousers – accidentally? – and I can feel the tension he's keeping at bay. He's faking disinterest just as much as I am. I sneak a sidelong glance at his face, only to see a glint in his eye as he catches me looking. A hint of a grin plays at the corner of his mouth, but then he darts a peek at Isabella (still perusing daggers) and he manages to get his expression back under control.

"Your current axe is heavier, so I'm sure it feels like you're getting more power in each swing, but I think the sword would give you more speed and flexibility. Better reaction time, too." He picks up the sword and hands it to me, gesturing for me to heft it and check the balance. It's not bad – I haven't used a sword for years, but he's right about the speed. It would be a nice change.

"I wouldn't be opposed to this," I admit.

"It's good to try a bit of change every once in a while," he says. If I hadn't felt that tiny tremor in his hand a second ago, I'd think he was commenting on the weather – but no, there's a deeper meaning. Which is all but confirmed when he picks the now-empty sword belt back up from the table and reaches around the small of my back to put it on me again.

I've got the broadsword laid out across my left arm, pommel in my opposite palm, testing the weight – which means I can't do anything to stop his arms from going around my waist. Luckily his body is blocking Isabella's view; I would hate to think what she'd say if she saw how close Hawke was standing to me.

He could tell what his proximity did to me, of course. Hawke could always read me, no magic necessary. Not to mention the obvious proof right in front of him, if he were to look. Maybe I should take up wearing mage robes – they would hide more at times like this.

He gets the belt draped around my waist – then takes his time with the buckle in the front. I don't realize I had stopped breathing until my head was already spinning. Which may or may not be entirely related to where his hands are. The belt clicks one more notch into place, then Hawke finishes with a blatant caress which nearly causes me to expire on the spot. He moves his hand away before Isabella has a chance to notice, but thoughtfully keeps his body between hers and mine so she can't see the color I'm sure is flooding my face.

"I'm coming to your mansion tonight," he murmurs low enough to not be overheard. "I need to talk to you about . . . swords."

Ever since I started . . . thinking . . . about Hawke, I envisioned exactly what I'd say if and when he finally propositioned me. It varied – when I was awake and brooding, I usually envisioned telling him off, letting him know what I really thought of mages, and more often than not, ending with a large amount of Aggregio Pavali, alone. It's what I wanted to do, what I would have done if Hawke had been any other mage.

In my more private moments, when I was awake in bed in the middle of the night, I often imagined a rather different scenario. Something starting with pinning Hawke to a wall, removing his damn fancy mage robes . . . and usually ending with me feeling sick with embarrassment at my own weakness and vowing to never let Hawke get that close to me for real.

I'm ashamed to admit, Hawke's pronouncement didn't lead to either of the two paths I've mentally prepared for. Wherever my blood was at the moment, it wasn't in my brain. The most I managed was to nod and keep my mouth shut and hold my tongue long enough to duck out of the Hanged Man with my new sword before Isabella and Anders realized what had just happened. I ran like the coward I am, hiding from a mage once again. Except this one is my friend – and after tonight, maybe something more. I'm toying with the idea of being gone when Hawke shows up – but I should be home. I'm always home when I'm not out with him. He's become the center of my life.

Hawke, I'm waiting for you.


End file.
